


Of Voices and Ruin

by Luvandia



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Brooding, Description Practice, Generally negative, Getting into the heads of characters who are hard to understand, Japanese Henry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luvandia/pseuds/Luvandia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, sure, it never feels good to wring pain on his victims, but the kill itself will always be exhilarating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Voices and Ruin

Another opponent falls, and another life’s been lost to the Plegian cause.

Fresh blood mars the earthy terrain, the faintest hint of red staining the grass below as a mark of previous battles won.

For a quiet moment, he watches the corpse ooze crimson, the liquid drooling from several gashes and burns almost symbolically. Maybe it represents the steady decline of sanity in humans, or how easily life can be wrought from someone if they should encounter a savage - but that’s all food for thought and nothing more, and Henry brushes it off, laughing gleefully over his victory.

The remnants of reason in his mind bear tattered clothes, worn and weathered and disgustingly dull, and they hang off bony limbs like rags off a branch.

A hand reaches out to him, trying feverishly to grab his face even as it trembles weakly, and Henry can only stand, only watch with amusement as the fingertips split off into tendrils that whip at nothing but air. The voices tell him to stay away, lest he be hurt, but to him the tendrils are… Harmless. Ugly. They pose no threat, so he’ll run not an inch. He’s not a coward, after all.

Still the voices fuss, starting to crawl out from the dusty crevices in his head as they chase off the tendrils, and, by extension, the bodiless arms they’re attached to. Henry smiles, assures the voices he’s fine, but they see right through him and his wicked front.

They’re a part of him. Expecting any less is a move only an imbecile would make.

( _oh,_ he thinks, somewhere dark and rusted over where the voices can’t yet reach. _but underneath all the pretenses, isn’t everyone an imbecile? it’s like an elaborate play, but that’s what makes the world so fun!_ )

The compact ball of voices expands.

Try as he might to ransack his memory, Henry can’t seem to recall when the voices first showed up, but they provided him the company he never knew he so desired until he got it. There had been a distinct part of his life without them - the time he’d spent with the wolf and other woodland creatures, and the institution his parents had sent him to - but the time after that resides in his mind like a hazy blur, and he remains unable to remember a thing about it.

It’s always memory blanks with him, huh.

It takes a special kind of person to appreciate a ragdoll in tatters, and someone even special-er to appreciate a ragdoll in tatters that stands and walks and feels, and if there exists a person out there who could appreciate Henry - why, Henry’s name wouldn’t be Henry at all!

…

Sometimes, only sometimes, Henry’ll let himself indulge in self-loathing. Negativity fuels his powers, and the more he despises something, the stronger the darkness he’ll harness becomes. It stays in his body, dormant and horrible, and it feels like the anticipation people get when they’re expecting something awful to come crashing down upon them.

The comparison isn’t inaccurate. If his victims weren’t already slumbering the afterlife away in their graves, they’d attest to that.

…

It never feels good to wring pain on his victims.

Something Henry believes in with all his heart and soul is that the worst part of death is the pain. And believe him, being aware that you’re shrouded by the prospect of passing on as you pass on feels horrible. Like watching a train rush towards you at full speed, and being overcome with the urge to flee, except you’re tied to the railway with the thickest rope your assailant could purchase from the market, as though you’re starring in one of those funny little roadside shows. Something like that.

And, sure, it never feels good to wring pain on his victims, but the kill itself will always be exhilarating.

That’s why Henry makes sure to hate himself all the more. To put his life on the line time after time. Because his existence is meant to be ephemeral, and it’s always a joy to put fate to the test; to see if his time has come yet. The more he smiles away the crushing failure he feels, the stronger he becomes, and ultimately it means his opponents will feel less pain while dying than they should.

And slowly, silently, so the voices don’t ever hear, Henry wonders to himself if anyone will ever be that merciful to him.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something for Henry - more specifically, Japanese Henry. Never liked how he turned out in the English version, no offense meant to those who do. He's a tricky character, so I really hope I did him justice.


End file.
